


Vanilla Skies.

by fearless_seas



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Insecurity, M/M, Minor Character Death, Overcoming fears, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Social Anxiety, Tags and Relationships will be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 23:59:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7458702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton both hate each other, right? Right? At least that's what they seem to say about one another, and what seems to meet the eye. After Thomas unintentionally reveals two secrets to his rival, Alexander and Thomas are both led on a journey- digging deeper and deeper into each others pasts. A breath and they both see each other through new eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One | Thomas.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jefferson takes his morning run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spent a while writing this chapter. I'm honestly in love with it.

         A bead of sweat threaded it’s way, slivering down the side of Thomas’s cheek. He took his arm out of his swinging pace and wiped the side of his face with the back of his hand. He panted loudly, his legs felt like jello, tight, the muscle squeezing against the joints in his conjoined limb. The bones screamed in agony underneath every step forward and every stroke of his arm. The struggles of his morning routine pinching him and he gasped for breath.

         Thomas swatted the thought away and narrowed his vision. His apartment was a couple blocks off of campus and it molded itself into view, growing taller and larger as it loomed closer, cast into the shadows of the other buildings. Thomas quickened his pace, forcing his shank to pursue, sprinting up towards the eleven story brick building. The taste of coppery blood boiled in his throat, seeping into his tongue dryly and he gagged at the taste. Thomas brought a hand in front of his eyes, watching the fingers on his hand violently shake, thrashing around with vigor. His legs were starting to give out, unable to stalk any further, failing underneath his dense figure.

         Thomas using his dying strength, tapped the side of the head, feeling the veins pulsating, rubbing his temples in an oscillatory press; Thomas unexpectedly let out a loud groan with the release of pressure to his cranium. A brown curl ringleted down from his hair landing anterior to his perception. His body was enervated and Jefferson with meager energy to spare, did not bother brushing the infuriating strand of hair back in it’s rightful place with the rest.

        His arms felt alien, as if they were not a part of him, and as if they were a stranger to his torso. Thomas’s fingers pressed on his stomach right above his hip, hoping the reveal the pinching burden. The area was twisted and burnt, the scolding spot soon growing relaxed. “Cheap fucking hair ties” he growled as more hair fell in front of his eyes, he clenched his teeth in between pants of air. In the middle of his run today, his last hair tie had snapped from the black circle it once was into a clear black **USELESS** line. This caused his run to prove more difficult, as he could not keep his mop of frizz from clouding his line of site.

         The thick summer air suffocated him, the humid air clinging to his skin like sap. Dry lungs, aching heart, Thomas’s lingering soul prolonged to stand underneath the canvass of his apartment building struggling for the air that was unwilling to enter his cramped bronchi. Don’t get him wrong, Thomas fancied the summer as any person should. The hot degrees, warm sand of the white beaches, the flowers nestled in the potted plants outside his window beginning to bloom into elegant arrays of petals, life. And, of course, not to forget, the beautiful women _and_ men all changing out their jeans and sweaters to show off their firm curves.

         Thomas soon smirked at his malapropos thinking. He was not a whore, Thomas cringed at the idea. Sure, he had slept and been with many Men and Women but none of them he found any deep attachment for. During the summer, Men and Women were more willing to take their clothes off to enjoy the last spare minutes of time they had before work began again and they were forced into uniform, unable to take time to meet. But, it had almost been two months since his courses started again. Thomas leaned his head back against the brick wall, closing his brown orbs to savor his last noiseless juncture of the day.

         The early morning breeze wrapped up his apartment building, effecting the red stones to cold, chilly to his contact; it felt welcoming and calming to his pulsating skull. Across from Thomas on the street, a car drove by at an indolent pace, the car’s headlights were turned off. How time passes. Thomas recalled his memory abaft, antecedent to right now, recollecting that at five A.M, the time he woke up every morning, the sky was darkened into an rich purple. Every dawn, every dusk the skyline would radiate from pitful darkness to a contrasting array of colors and textures. This morning, when his fatigued eyes cracked open lazily, his body's natural clock awakening him; his tenement was revetment towards the capacious window of his bedroom. The window was rectangle, a view of the street below, from eight stories above ground.

         Jefferson swung his feet gradually out of bed, sitting up and pressing his shoulders back, stretching and feeling the muscles crack, popping to his satisfaction. He scooted a hand over his heavy eyelids and rose out of bed, striding towards the fenestration. He opened one of the window panes, the chilly waft rustling through out his brown coils. There was no glowing burnish, the city was still cast into a lunette, the sun just dawning to gander over the lofty domicile construction. The metropolis just kicking off to rise from a slumber. The sky, in that heart warming instant was a spectacular mulberry, fathomless, hypnotic, barren of all luminaries. His contention traced, etching the transforming bloom as it painted a visionary. Allowing his eyelashes to flutter, flying, dropping percolate to the rising sunlight. The mulberry purple, shading, painting with the nature in its palm.

         His eyes following down it’s curves, the mulberry reciprocated to heliotrope to periwinkle and right above the rays: lavender and lilac. Thomas was tempted, his fingers itched to maneuver his wrist, manipulating his brush to bring his canvas and watercolors from the next room. Treasure the moment with grooves, swirls and opulence. But, the wink of purples dimmed, slipping threw his fingers like sand. Thomas a minute later was exhilarated by the evanescent tones. The sky’s beautiful could not be captured with paints, with photographs with memories. Truly angelic seconds, as this cannot be captured, only felt. When their gone, you’re left with your inhalation depleted, your reflection amplified. Thomas didn’t proceed from his position at the window, residing established to marvel at the changing colors. When they were gone, Thomas stepped back from the window, all he saw was purple.

         After he had slipped his running shorts over his muscular legs, the shorts just cutting off right above his kneecap, Thomas stretched his stiff legs, grabbed of shot of pressed wheat grass juice, drank and then licked his lips. He never got ready afore his run, only swallowed a shot of his “Startup shots” before slamming the apartment door shut behind him and springing his daily run off. Thomas didn’t listen to music as he jogged, choosing to simply listen to the rare aurora of morning birds cheap off to a cheerful outset as he began to trot down the avenue. Thomas hid his apartment key in a potted plant down the hall, burying it slightly in the dirt so that his hands would not become distracted and start meddling the key as he ran.

         Thomas rubbed his fingers together, recalling back to the space when he left the building, the heavens above were morphed tastefully from abysmal mirage of purple antimony to a less attractive and less captivating cobalt. More flashes of fluky retentions, most of them forgotten as his ingenuity whirled from the mesmerizing moment of purple, everything lost to him. A car had brushed it’s way past the alleyway near his building, it’s headlights on. Now as his lungs craved the musty air around him, and his legs stimulated with blood, he watched another car punch itself down the street and he noticed its headlights were shut off. Thomas patted himself on the back, for observing the cars hind which was covered with New York’s old license plate: yellow with black lettering, a unique occasion. Thomas sat up at the sight, lifting himself off the wall in a splurge of strength. He had been looking for one of those in antique shops. Desperately wishing to create a collage above the headboard on his bed.

         The word _collage_ boomed through to his more important deliberations, the vowels of the expression circulated, replacing themselves in his subconscious, _college_. “Shit”, Thomas croaked with the realization, hoarse and he cleared his throat, pushing himself off the outer brick wall, entering his apartment building.

         He held out a thumb and slapped it against the elevator button, it lit up to a start, his leg gyrating as he patted his thighs looking for his phone. “And of course…” Thomas rolled his eyes listening to the old rickety elevator scrap it’s way down the column. “The elevator takes the longest when I get to get the fuck moving” he mimicked himself and made a face as the elevator doors opened in front of him. He would be lying if he said that every time he entered the ancient elevator he didn’t envision his demise, pictures of the elevator falling down the shaft, the worn chords snapping or even worse, becoming enclosed in the claustrophobic elevator. It was so small he could barely even fit himself in it. But since he was on the seventh story, the stairs were time constricting, although his anxiety would set in, inside the fucking elevator.

      Thomas squeezed himself into the rickety elevator and pressed the number seven. The doors closed before him and his neck twitched, waiting impatiently. He was late. If only he hadn’t of stopped to gaze upon the rivets of yellow and orange of the sunset this morning, he would be already out of the shower and munching on a banana as he made his way out of the door on his way to class.

         The walls of the elevator vibrated, a sharp whizzing sound popped and the space jolted, the lights flickering awake as the box began to climb. Thomas, startled at the sudden movement, shot out a shaking arm towards the railing at the side of the elevator to sturdy himself properly. He took a deep breath and blinked slowly, attempting to steady his heart which was trying to run out of his chest right now. The stress of the altercation, and the presence of being in a confined space caused the heat in the elevator to drastically grow hotter than it actual was.

         Thomas lamented and he pinched his running shorts, which were actually just maroon basketball shorts, trying to distract himself. “You fucking elevator…” he grumbled pursing his lips into a fine line, “I swear to god…” Thomas didn’t culminate his sentence before the elevator lurched, turbulently, screaming under the weight inside and shuddered into a full stop. The light above quivered on and off. Thomas remained in silence for a minute, anticipating, maybe he was already at his floor. He waited a few seconds before reaching forward and slamming his fist against the open door button, but nothing happened, the doors remained shut.

         The lit buttons on the dashboard shut off, and Thomas drew in a sharp breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! No, no! _Son of a bitch!_ ” he wined, growling defeat, gritting his teeth and pounded a punch against the door. He immediately regretted that splurge of anger and his hands flew up to pull at his hair in frustration, his knuckles burned. The elevator swayed, the sides convulsing and Thomas widened his leg, pressing his weight to a better stance to create sturdy ground. The light inside was beginning to grow dimmer, dying, he regretted that he never brought his glasses with him when he ran.

         At an early age, Thomas was stubborn and never admitted the fact that most of the time, everything that was close to him was blurry and he couldn’t even fucking see. Of course, he didn’t want to have to wear glasses, they were too embarrassing, too ridiculous. To his fatal dismay, he could only wear contacts for six hours before his eyes flinched with irritation and burned. The elevator he was confined in was starting to spin, his head reeling, oh how he hated tight spaces. _Claustrophobia_ , he mouthed the mouth out loud to himself.

         Seeking to capture authority of his settling nerves, Thomas detangled his fingers from his bouncy curls, where they were pulling and he stepped back from the button dashboard, trying to see superior through the washed composure. Not sure, he slapped his knuckle against a red button. Thomas did not know if he was suppose to press the red button or the yellow button, he impatiently sat back and waited. After what resembled a decade, he ran a hand down his bare chest, attempting to wipe away the sweat accumulating on his pecs before Thomas with tremoring drummed the twin sized yellow button. Of course, that did also nothing.

         Thomas heaved out a shivering moan, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck his chest waved with anxiety. Ask anyone, “Oh yeah! Thomas Jefferson is super calm all the time” the remarks building in his lonely mind started to spill out of his brain, skidding past his adrid tongue. “It’s almost _scary_ how calm he is, even when he gets into arguments with that, arg, what’s that piece of shit’s name? Oh yeah! Alexander Hamilton…” Thomas sucked in his cheek and rubbed the rough stubble on his jaw line. “Did you hear” he whispered to himself. “Thomas Jefferson got stuck in an elevator!” Thomas mimicked “I didn’t know he was claustrophobic, what a pussy” he rolled his eyes, putting his arms up in front of his chest from down at his sides, waving his hands. Although Thomas knew nobody would say it to his face, he would hear the sly remarks to his name echoing behind his back.

          _Alexander Hamilton._

         Thomas bit his lip, reaching into the tiny zipper pocket at the side of his shorts. He clicked on his phone, and soon found he could not even see the damn screen. “Who’s fucking eyes did I get?!” he shrieked, tightening a fist around the square imprint of his iPhone. He took a moment, the heat suffocating his thoughts, thinking back briefly to his Mother and Father. He Mother didn’t wear glasses, and neither did his Father. Thomas had only fourteen years of memories of his Father. He shrugged the thought away, _I probably fucking got dropped on my head as a baby._ He pondered a moment in deep thought, “But wait- which side of your head would you have to be dropped on?” he curled a lip up and tilted his head to the side. Thomas was tempted to look it up on Safari but his thought organized themselves properly and he remembered he was stuck in an elevator.

         Thomas wished he had at least worn his contacts this morning, but he always saved, solely six hours of non-allergic reactions to his optics, during his courses with Alexander Hamilton luckily. Hamilton would rip on him so hard if he knew for two hours of college a day he had to wear glasses. In a way, Jefferson was surprised, with the way that Hamilton followed him around, standing outside of his classes, surveying for the latest arguments. How has Hamilton not already noticed how Jefferson’s hand always zips to his pocket to hide the evidence.

         Thomas could most definitely call for help on his phone, as the air in the elevator was starting to constrict his rational mind. The only problem was that he could not see the brightly lit screen on his phone. Thomas swallowed, a lump in his throat beginning to form, his chest tightened and his breathing becoming mercurial.

        “Washington is going to have my ass if I’m late” Thomas just barely made out the white outline of a seven on the hour time on his lockscreen. Unable to make out the minute time. He bit his nail with solicitude, then sobbing at the jagged chip. Washington was an amiable teacher, strict but allowed his students time to concede and ask questions. An astute teacher, but of course, it was instantaneously contrived into the most interesting American Politics class, (according to other students) due to Hamilton and Jefferson’s loud outbursts and debates. Their debates somehow managed to teach the class with spitfire dialect more than Washington could teach in a one hour lesson. Along with a good English lesson, considering the large words they both spat out.

         By the end of the class, more often than not, it resulted in Washington leaping from the front of the classroom to pull the two of them apart, who were standing chest to chest, Thomas’s fist wrapped around the front of his shirt with a hand raised or Hamilton would wrap his body around his waist and tackle Jefferson to the floor, Jefferson forced to pin him down while Hamilton threw up a knee in defense. Sure, Jefferson was 6’2 and Hamilton was merely 5’7, an seven inch height difference. Washington would always arrive just in time, out of nowhere to grab a punch mid air.

        Jefferson was surprised with the way they glared at each other, that one of them didn’t burst into flames. There was a fire brewing in both of their eyes, Hamilton was a hurricane his flame brewed, bursting from a slow extinguish into a conflagration that Jefferson’s paled in comparison to. Jefferson tried to keep his cool during their heating arguments, but half way through it would result in having to roll up his sleeves and unbutton the top button of his shirt. Jefferson knew the stakes behind in Hamilton’s soul grew richer every debate, they both enjoyed the way their heart raced and their head pulsated, their tongues speaking in rapid fire tongues only each other could understand. Others, struggling, muttering swears under their breath as they jotted down words in miles.

         Thomas could feel the phone in his hands shaking in tune to the jerking motions in his nervous wrist. He realized, that he couldn’t call 911, that would be too embarrassing, he thought of the all the people he knew in his phone who could explain to Washington why he was so late, why he didn’t who up to his course. The consideration broke into his subconscious and he shivered at the initiation. His spine shuddered, he shut his eyes, leaning his head back against the motionless walls of the elevator. His only choice.

         In a clear emphasized voice he pressed his home button and with a sigh, pulled the phone in front of his lips:

         “Siri, call Alexander Hamilton”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:  
> \- The real Thomas Jefferson did actually have bad social anxiety. The claustrophobia is just another throw in.  
> \- Thomas Jefferson was super athletic, so yeah.   
> \- If you caught on, Thomas is afraid of getting close to people.   
> \- Those adorable glasses Daveed always wears? Yeah, picture those.   
> \- If you caught on, Thomas's father died when he was fourteen. Thomas Jefferson did actually have his Father die when he was fourteen- this led him to develop a rocky relationship with his Mother. Remember I'm a history buff so all this shit is gonna be SUPER accurate.   
> \- Thomas Jefferson was actually 6'2.5, he was half an inch taller than George Washington. Alexander Hamilton was 5'7. Height accuracy. I love heights.   
> -


	2. Chapter Two | Alexander.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then there was Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I told you guys that there was going to be another chapter in the next three days after the first one; sorry I lied. I've kinda been traveling a lot. But thanks for waiting!. It takes me kind of a long time to write one of these chapters because I at first write it, then edit it, then edit it again and then read through the final draft before publishing it.  
> \- Presley.

          Alexander Hamilton loathed mornings. He was not a morning person. He detested the thicket of darkness clouding his vision when he awoke. He execrated the static mute of his dorm room, the empty ominous surroundings. There was barely any furniture, his clothes were strewn out all over the floor in a hurricane frenzy. His black eyes would crack open- stinging from being shut behind darkness for so long, although he rose at the ass crack of seven, and brewed himself a cup of coffee, the caffeine was never enough to mask the cloudy bags underneath his eyes from staying up till three in the morning. His arms and legs were stiff- the skin irritated by every single touch to the surroundings. 

          There was a skip in his heartbeat when he unfurled his eyes that dawn, only to find that sunlight was already slicing it's way through the white blinds; creating slices of light cutting across the carpet. "Shit", he exclaimed out loud, his croaky aperture springing to action, disdaining the throbbing burrowing in his cranium. He immediately reached out a slender arm and picked his phone up off of the nightstand next to his bed and quickly scanned his blurry eyes over the bright lock screen, allowing his eyes seal again. 

          _7:28_ , it read in taunting white lettering. His stripped gaze widened unintentionally and he rubbed his thin eyelids in a circular motion- starting the blood flowing to his pulsating skull. His stomach grumbled obnoxiously, synchronizing with the grunts pressuring past his tongue in realization. "Fuck", his whispered sharply with divulgence, clicking his tongue indignantly, "Shit- shit, _Seriously?!"_ he frantically grabbed at his hair. _"How did I do it again?!"_ the insults ambitious past his lips like candy. Alexander seemed to lack a brain to mouth filter, it was quite obvious to anyone with ears, the words that lurched of his tongue at ridiculous speeds. He couldn't count the amount of times his mouthing off got him a slap, or a hard soul rocking punch that threw him off his feet in defeat. 

          Swinging his feet over the side of his bed and on shaky footing, he stood up- throwing his phone down on his desk and patting over to his closet. His first course of the day, with Mr. Washington, was his Political Debates class. It was an exciting class, accompanied by Washington's obstreperous thundering delivery that permeated the room, strangling the percipience of others, for Alexander it congested all the inspiration, seeping into his absorbent knowledge.

          It was mesmerizing- drawing you in to listen to the lectures with heightened hearing, your senses amplified to a large extent of sultry vocals. Of course- those lectures were immediately interrupted when Washington would step down, sit up straight, lace his fingers together in front of him politely (a formal military man), sitting back down at his desk and allowing this students to debate certain topics of interest he proposed. 

          _Thomas Jefferson._

          Alexander shuddered, his feet gliding over the cold linoleum flooring- sticking to the bottom of his feet. He pulled his gray sweatpants up higher on his scrawny hips and blew a strand of dark brown hair out of his vision. _I should cut my hair sometime,_ he regarded, tucking a lock securely behind his ear. _If I had the time,_ and that contemplation ended his fantasy, as he threw his hair up in a messy, un-even ponytail that rested at the base of his neck and took out a blue sweatshirt. He didn't bother changing out his white tank top in exchange for another in his closet and simply tore it off, tossed it in a corner and slipped the over-sized sweatshirt over his bare chest and stomach.

          His infuriated mane of hair got caught underneath his shoulder blades and he tugged- freeing the mahogany fringe where it was trapped. He let out a breath that he did not realize that he was holding in and the pressure deflated his chest. Too caught up in the rift of time, he didn't put on any of the wool socks he had recently bought for himself and simply- while hopping on one foot, struggled to pull on his checkered vans over his bare feet.

           Alexander shuffled the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to his elbows, due to the heat as he felt his cheeks beginning to blemish, flinching as the fading scars came to light on his wrist. He ignored the uncomfortable bliss of freedom and picked his phone up off of the desk. _7:41_ , Washington's class began at promptly eight in the morning. Strict but agreeable, he closed the doors of his lecture hall not allowing any late students into his class past eight. He did not codon "Slackers", in the words of _The General._

          It had happened to him multiple times in the past and he rolled his eyes in time to the words bobbing at the back of his throat. Their was two times in the past that Jefferson never allowed his debate partner to ever forget. It had been twice in the past that Washington had allowed Hamilton into his class after the eight o'clock mark in time. It was no secret that his teacher enjoyed his company more than that of others. Of course, while getting into the class late, all of the eyes of envy were on him, his cheeks flushed bittersweet as he strolled his way down the aisle to his seat. 

          "Teacher's pet", Jefferson would snarl underneath his breath as Alexander flurried past his desk. It was a snarl, a deep throated Southern drawl that pin pricked goosebumps down his spine, lining his skin, soaking in his words like melodies. Thomas Jefferson's voice brought him to attention, it caused a chemical reaction in his brain that immediately brought on a fit of immense passion. Time again, the immigrant probed the idea, that maybe that spiteful passion could be transferred from anger into another stronger emotions if they both tried. The passion was there- there was no denying it. 

          His flashy fashion Prada that he flaunted around like an art show (not that Hamilton didn't want to pin Jefferson up on a wall). His hair was a large bouquet that somehow reminded Alexander of light pink roses, possibly from the sweet, sultry scent that sifted off of him. Enveloping the room in his cologne. Jefferson's brown curls bounced when he took a curvy step, framing his oval, dark skinned complexion. Alexander couldn't help but notice the way he swayed his hips when he took a step. The curls brought out his large circular eyes, abysmal, intent, almost as if his orbs could see right through you. In a way, Alexander was fearful that one day Jefferson would one day manage to see right through him with the way that his eyes changed from soft to I'll-stab-you-to-death, at the site of Hamilton. _How would that change the way he glanced in Alexander's direction? Would he no longer see a component. if he saw right through him?_

          Alexander never said anything back to Jefferson's snarky remarks, but simply saved his air for when there was a serious time to debate. He wiggled his toes in his shoes, they were a little big, but he didn't mind- there was more room. He brushed his teeth- rapidly shoving everything into it's right spot and not bothering to wipe his spit up from the counter and fosset. Before finally, he adjusted the collar of his royal sweatshirt and brushed his sleeves back down to where his hands connected to his wrist joints. There was a sudden pale of relief that washed over him, and the tension in his lungs dissipated. 

         There was a strain in his vision, something drawing his studios to glint to the empty bed across the room. One that had been occupied until just three weeks ago. "Damn you, Burr", the words slithered out in fury syllabuls, and although he felt no hatred for his counter, he was slightly annoyed at the fact that he had left him near the end of the semester. Burr brought home Thai food that night and almost as if it was a trade; he then last minute announced he was- the next day- moving into an apartment off campus with his long term girlfriend Theodosia. 

          The bite stopped halfway to his mouth and he raised an eyebrow in discontent and Burr awkwardly picked at the food on his plate with a spoon. This annoyed Alexander for many reasons because Burr didn't ask how to use chopsticks. Which was funny, because _he_ was the one who brought home Thai food and he didn't know how to use chopsticks. Even before the meal had started, Alexander felt a something was off as Aaron rummaged around in the cabinets for a clean cup- which he soon found after blowing dust out of the cylinder. There was a certain poise in his stance as if there was a lingering sentence that was prolonging to be spoken. Alexander wasn't sure if he was ready for the answer to the systematic silence. 

          There was a dead silence in the room, he breathed in the lonely, musty air, missing the tidy space Aaron used to keep. It was a melancholy still weather, he wished he had taken advantage of Burr's automatic alarm clock imprinted in his brain. Burr was always up at 6:30, bright and early, would make himself breakfast then leave to go grab an early morning coffee with Theodosia before school. After of course, dragging Alexander out of bed so that he wouldn't be late for his daily verbal mediocrities with Jefferson. 

          Get this clear, Alexander Hamilton did not _hate_ Thomas Jefferson. For Alexander's buzzing conscious it was easier to sputter out the paragraphs about how much he _hated_ Thomas Jefferson rather than not feel the sentiment of simply exclaiming grievances about his _dislike_ for Thomas Jefferson. Which was more true to his morals.

          _"Mon amie, il y a trop, how you say..."_ _Lafayette would squeeze his eyes shut, thinking hard for a long moment and waving his wrist around before Hercules would jump in, saving him._

          _"-Sexual tension" Hercules would add with a nod, Lafayette would giggle, and John would pretend he was simply scrolling through his Instagram feed when in fact he was actually hiding the upward curling of his mouth corners behind the back of his phone._

         It was difficult, there was a strange longing in Alexander's brain- he desperately, so _desperately_ wished that he could hate Thomas Jefferson. But there was not a center in his brain that would allow the certain click of exasperation to mold in his person. The arguments left Alexander depleted, a rush of blood to his heart, pumping adrenaline through out his veins, his head would throb, his energy depleted. It was how he felt after a really long night of amazing sex. Amazing sex of course- _that he had never had_. Alexander had failed so far in finding someone who wanted him not only for sex, but for the idea of staying the morning, cooking breakfast together, to build a- the dark brunette stopped himself as his heart started to pang with crave in his empty chest cavity, the ribs wheezing together.

          Alexander couldn't recount the amount of times that he wanted to press a finger to Jefferson's large lips and see how the two of them could last in a prolonged silence. _Would they tear each other to pieces, or close the space between them?_   There was a heartfelt kind expression Jefferson disposed when he entered an area. It was only when Alexander started with him, would he jut out a hip in resilience, curl up a lip in disgust, and raise an eyebrow in question. There was only one thing Jefferson couldn't hide, and Alexander could see the glint shine over his fallen orbs. Alexander knew in his heart that Jefferson did enjoy his company, that somehow, somewhere in his small minded ego there was a glass of excitement that would befall him when his enemies mouth opened. 

          Suddenly, from where his phone was laying face-up on the table, it began to buzz. It threw him vigorously out of his daydreaming thoughts, and his quick feeted frenzy. He pressed on his temples in wake and picked up his phone from the surface, dropping it several times and cursing loudly before finally his quivering fingers grasped a strong hold on his phone. Alexander blinked at the scenic words on his phone. 

          _Thomas Jefferson is calling..._

           Alexander threw his neck back, "Why the fuck is Jefferson calling me?" Alexander shook his head before reasoning got the better of him, "Why the fuck do I even have his number in my phone?" he whined, to the nobody that was in the room. His eyes flickered up to the time stamp on the top of his screen, 7:52. Fuck, he was going to be late for class. _This better be worth it._

          "God damn it Jefferson..." Alexander swore, shifting his footing and pressing the green call button, the ringing stopped and he hesitated for a minute listening to the heavy breathing on the other end. 

            _"Hello?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:  
> \- Alexander basically just wears over sized sweatshirts, sweatpants and vans. In real life, Alexander Hamilton cared deeply about his appearance (he was super vain) and Thomas Jefferson was the one who didn't care what he looked like.   
> \- If you caught on, Alexander is afraid that Thomas will see right through him one day. Too bad Thomas hasn't tried looking close enough yet.   
> \- If you caught on, Aaron and Alexander used to share a dorm room together before Aaron and Theodosia decided to move in together.   
> \- If you caught on, Alexander doesn't hate Thomas.   
> \- If you caught on, Lafayette ships them. Like really ships them. Like he probably writes fan fiction about them somewhere.   
> \- If you caught on, Alexander has had sex but hasn't had passionate sex. I dunno how to explain.


	3. Chapter Three | Jefferson.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas needs help, and Alexander is being a snarky prick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that my updating schedule has been slightly messy. I spent three days writing 7,000 words for another one of my Fanfics; but then my computer crashed. So, I lost all of my work. That led to me loosing my motivation to write. I spent all day yesterday writing this chapter- only for my computer to crash again. So, again, I had to rewrite this entire chapter. 
> 
> But yeah, its my birthday tomorrow :)
> 
> Thanks for waiting!  
> \- Presley.

          _"Hello?"_

         Thomas jolted up at the sound of a static crackling voice auditing out of his phone speaker. Although Thomas had called Alexander, expecting him to pick up- he was plenty surprised when his phone bursted into life after several tension sifting rings. His mouth became a desert, his blurry vision becoming far more opened to his eyes, edges darkening. Blinking several times, and sliding his dry tongue over the top of his front teeth his mind drew to a halty blank of response.

         _"Hello?"_ the voice repeated on the line, more attitude submerged, buzzing and then growing silent for several seconds after the declaration. A swell of panic seethed in him, he could pretend that he had accidentally butt-dialed him, but they were too far, in too deep.

          Alexander's voice on the other end managed to somehow sound several pitches higher than it did in real life; even higher than what his voice grew to during their heated debates. It was a speculate that the taller male seemed to study on the shorter's features. Washington often pinned the two in satisfying debates. It was an exceptional example for the more shy students of the join, with knowledge and spicy vocabulary. The heat of the argument usually wafting off into the tight air place of the classroom. Often enough Washington would whisper to the student he was closest to and point to the thermostat blinking in at a bored room temperature. Thomas wasn't surprised that several minutes later, that same student would again be sent to turn the thermostat even lower than Washington had previously recommended before.

         _"Seriously?",_ Alexander lamented and a puff of exasperated breath made Thomas wince seldomly, smuggling him back into asunder reality. _"Jefferson, I don't-",_ in his percipience, Thomas could picture Alexander in his apartment or his dorm room, he didn't know honestly, taking the receiver of his phone off of his cheek and squinted at the time stamp at the top of his phone. _"-Have time for his shit, okay?"_ he culminated his sentence, snipping through grinded teeth the lingering phrase was concluded. Alexander Hamilton was most definitely not one to own a watch of any type.

         There was a moment of lingering quietude, words unsaid in the morning breeze. On the other end of the dial Alexander exhaled out a copious respire, Thomas could impression the exasperation wafting through into his entity and his head tilt back against the walls of the elevator. Eyelids shutting as he attempted to block out the matter dawning before him. The breath that drifted from several miles away seemed to be right afore him as the elevator buzzed out a hefty groan that stimulated Thomas to shiver, rolling down his spine subsequential in tides. The past fever from the summer sun that sank into his aching bones was now absent against his quivering surface. A hand absently mindlessly padded over the sticky skin of his chest, the dry sweat. How he craved a shower.

           _“Fine, goodbye asshole”._ A deep threat combed over the connection, in a convulsion attempt his throat swelled with words aching to vent out of a mosey tongue. The end of the line didn’t beep to a stop. Thomas’s head to mouth function faltered and his usual careful selection of language quickly changed. He was a writer, it was uncommon for his mind to blank of any type of colloquy. But, now as Hamilton’s threat of departure mingled with the meddling phrases in his correspondence, his heart led him in a battle for savior while his mind was still trying to figure out why he was in this situation.

         “Wait-”

         Silence. The words fell out, sliding along his dry tongue and colliding out of his lips in a one word, one syllable chorus of accident. The letters of the word strung out in a flicker of sounds. The word stuck sticky, like sap, the letters clinging together in desperation. Thomas was not one to speak fast- he was prudent, deliberation with his selection; indolent in his movements, more to bring a sort of show to the table. Different, from the constant rumbling and ranting of Alexander Hamilton. Spitting out verses like they meant nothing, trying to fit as much as he could into one single breath. It sounded a lot like sleep apnea.

         From the moment that Alexander picked up the phone, his tone of voice took a resemblance not of anger but of disgust. The thick coating of hatred soaking into his language as it floated through the telephone. There was a cavernous stab of pain to his chest cavity. Thomas often wondered if he cracked open his chest if he wouldn’t find a live beating organ but possible a gray piece of dying tissue. The relief of hope that had flooded his emotions when he heard the steep pitches of Hamilton on the other end washed away like rolling tides and the light weight on his shoulders now grew heavier as his shoulders submerged lower in defeat a metaphor for his sinking self-view. The edges of his vision became even darker, his head light weight under the pressure of the shaking elevator.

         Silence. Thomas’s heart ceased beating, for what felt like hours, time ticking by in a sweet tempo. Steady breath decrepitated over the speakers, _“What do you want, Jefferson?”_ Jefferson. His name spoken in fit of revulsion. Alexander Hamilton hated Jefferson with a pure passion that his teeth chatter in distaste at the concept of even speaking Jefferson’s name, sin. Jeffersin. Not a sensation in his feeling which would permit Thomas to hate Alexander. Alexander’s name, stranger from the usual spit of Hamilton. They fought, elbowed each other in the hallways, shoulders shoving against each other when they both tried going through Washington’s classroom doorway at the same time.

          Jefferson. Another stab of his chest, his ribs inception capsizing on each other, rattling bones, his stomach twisted and burnt. He almost entertained the idea of fingering his abdomen to see if there was really a black hole in his disappearing solar plexus. Lungs restricting, collapsing as they took lead from his ribs and began their descent from his torso, sucking into the ominous twisted blackness forming in the pit of his stomach.

         _“Fuck you, Jefferson”_ , another pang of satiation and enmity. Thomas did not hesitate at this indication.

         “Hamilton”. His voice came out in dying dialect, speech in a wavering pitch of unease tempo and organization. The elevator grew smaller, constricting, the plastered walls closing in on him and suffocating. He felt as if he was drowning: under Hamilton’s words, he was. The elevator roof was only two inches above his head. 6’2, was a tall height to be acquainted too. He was always sizable, always towering over everyone else in his youth. Now, he was the same height as Washington, a mass figure to the public who stood bold and contrast towards and against others. “I-I-” he panted, regaining the lost control of himself. “I need your help”.

         Voice shaky, and the hand that wrapped his fingers around the outer shell of his phone were clammy, not managing to retain a strong grip within his sliding fingers. His other hand was locked in an iron grip around the fake gold railing around the side of the elevator, so low it almost reached his knees. Thomas’s head fell back against the side of the rose wallpaper, faded bruises and scars of past making themselves known as they throbbed against his dark skin, invisible now, but always there. He groaned, not sure if Hamilton had heard him or not- he did hear a slight scoff on the other end at his amorous sound. A scar at the crown of his cranium began to sting, digging into his skull.

         Absently, and with recognition, his hand with his phone lightly dabbed the bald spot. He had only been in the apartment building for about two days when his mind drew him back to his childhood. In a fleeting moment of deliberance, when the elevator jolted to a start, he jumped up, awakening. He woke up three minutes later on the elevator floor, hair dip dyed red with blood at the roots, the usually golden halo diving around his mass of brown curls flattened. A trip to the emergency room left him with seven stitches and a bald spot on his skull to prove it.

         A snort, _“Why the fuck would I help_ **_you_ ** _?”_. Emphasis on you made Thomas’s jaw set in exasperation.

         The elevator seemed to grow again, tighter at his altercations, familiar sights, domestic sounds and smells tuned into his kinesthesia. He sniffed, smelling the faint lap of expensive letter, and silk ties. The rail he held a steady grip on turned to peeling wallpaper. In the aftertaste of his mouth, lining his teeth he tasted coppery blood, cracked lips and bruises lining parallel on the sides of his stomach. Lungs constricting out dying notes. In the distance he could hear the the smash of glass and deep throated roar that echoed throughout the home. Screams, tears rolling down his cheeks in silhouettes, etching into his persona. He lay on the floor, face rubbing against the carpet, blood dripping from his nose.

          Thomas bit his lip, forcing back the sob that built like a bubble in the knot of his throat. His knees knocked together, buckling nimbly, tremoring where they barely held the man up. Another flash, envisioning the short stony eyed expression from his Mother, the rotting wood of a tree house; hidden high up and covered by a mass of thick green leaves. Sultry summer sunlight dotting through the banana green leaves and pinpointing the molding wood with gold flecks of heaven. The sweet brew of Southern Lemonade always caused the cuts in his lips and gum to sting.

         An abysmal wheeze, Thomas drew. “I need you to-” he cleared his throat, mumbled by an aching sob that he held restrained with all of his might. “-Tell Washington-”. Hamilton didn’t deserve to hear him cry. Alexander was bent over with one arm rubbing sweaty stress marks into the wood of his desk, if he even had a desk. In his heart, Thomas knew he had a desk. Feet felt corpulent as he imagined the dirty clothes in piles covering the carpet of Hamilton’s living.

          _“What do I get out of this?”_ a demand, an interruption, Thomas pictured the smug upturned corners of Alexander’s slim, knife-like, lips. Sneering, mocking his misery. Of all the fears the world could of displaced upon him, sharks, heights, large bodies of water; his mind pieced together all the broken fragments from childhood memories and come up with a compilation of locked closeted experiences. _Claustrophobia_. It was not a phobia, his mentally simply did not allow himself to be sane as long as he is rooted in a spot with no ability to move.

         “Please, Hamilton-”

         Another snort of displeasure. _“Please, Hamilton”_ he mocked, repeating. _“Since when do you say please to me?”._

         Thomas was at a loss for words once again. His chest tightened, breathing in and out harshly to maintain his composure. “Unlike you, Hamilton” he hissed, “I’m polite”. The warm feeling in his gut returned and his skin began to feel warm.

          _“Yeah, okay”_ , the sarcasm made Thomas roll his eyes, a tiny smile creeping it’s way onto his features. _“Why aren’t you in class? It starts in like eight minutes.”_

         Thomas winced, clenching his teeth, he was usually ten minutes early for class. “Fuck” he cried, causing a chortle of laughter on the other end that seemed to far away. “Why aren’t _you_ in class?”. Although he knew the answer.

         _“I’m talking to you asshole”._

         “Sorry”.

         Hamilton croaked on the other end, _“Did Thomas Jefferson just say, “Sorry”, to me, Alexander Hamilton?”_ he teased, and Jefferson could feel his taunts as if he was standing right in front of him. _“Are you hungover or something?”._

         That inquiry made Thomas shake his head and leap up on weak and failing legs, “What the hell? No!” Although, it did feel like it.

          _“Did you kill someone? I’m surprised it’s not me.”_

          Thomas was surprised he hadn’t lept through the receiver and wring Alexander’s neck. “ _Fuck_ Hamilton, just shut up and help me!”. In a vague attempt for help, he sounded desperate and Thomas immediately regretted his choice of words when the other line paused.

         A sigh, _“What do you need, Jefferson?”._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:  
> \- If you caught on, Thomas hates it when Alexander calls him Jefferson- but he'll never say so.   
> \- If you caught on, you learned a little bit about Thomas's past. I'm adding clues in every chapter that's about Thomas- but later on we'll be addressing his slightly depressing past so if you are catching onto the clues I'm laying for you- good on you- It'll do you good chapters ahead.


	4. Chapter Four | Hamilton.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a new side of Jefferson emerges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been long since an update. I apologize. I have been so busy. I just moved, started my fifth school and life is getting particularly tight. This has been written up for about two weeks now and I only now found the time to edit the entire thing and update this fanfic. I'd rather have a quality fanfic that takes me long to edit than a shitty fanfic that I publish as soon as I'm done.

          A sigh, “What do you need, Jefferson?”.

          The feel of morning seeping into his bones, eyes flinched with regret. Alexander was _not_ an insomniac, it was fact that he was constantly tired, always dragging his feet in wake, between the “ _designer_ ” bags underneath his eyes hanging like black fruit from thick trees. Their was a constant weak shaking of his hands, his handwriting messy as he jotted himself notes, inch blotches covering the spaces between. He could sleep if he wanted to, but what good would it do for him? He’d sleep, feel refreshed- sure. But work would never disappear, there was always something more of him to do, a never ending story.

          He bit back a lash of hate, focusing his mind on the present. Everything that was now, he could not go back in time if he wanted to, if he allowed his mind to divulge constantly into a pin prick of memory into the past then his own scrutiny and thoughts of the near present would be crumpled. No expectations, he didn’t quite know what to expect with diving into Jefferson’s demands. His mind was still hovering with early morning confusion and sleep deprivation. _Why did he answer the phone when Jefferson called? How the hell did he even have Jefferson’s number in his damn phone?_

His reflection surveyed vaguely back in time, light brew of alcohol warming his brain and his cracked phone messily thrown around between his friends across the room. Lafayette’s curls bounced before tipping his head back and peering at the black ink on his hand- fuck. Alexander pursed his lips and let his shoulders fall in defeat. Not that he didn’t mind having Thomas Jefferson’s number in his phone- who knew, he could post it on a dating site if he wanted too. Lips coiled up into a smirk at the idea, planning slightly in his brain and forgetting the telephone held to the side of his face.

          A stutter on the other end of the line that caused Alexander’s half minded gaze to jump, _“I- uh, I need you to tell Washington…”_ he coughed, as if attempting to collect himself, and Alexander’s slouch straightened at the pitch wavering on the other end, his eyebrows knitted together at the center of his brow and eyes shifted from side to side in a muse. A pregnant pause on the other side as the steady stream of breath crackling over the speakers ceased and Alexander couldn’t help but wonder if Jefferson had just dropped dead right that second. He hoped he didn’t, if Jefferson did Alexander would butcher his dead body for wasting his time.

          A growl vibrated from his lungs and past his tongue in exasperation, “Spit it out Jefferson- I don’t have all day”, his chest tensed and he waited for Jefferson’s sultry southern pipes to stream another banquet of ignorant come backs.

          Jefferson let out a sharp intake of air and the hairs on the back of Alexander’s neck poised straight up, goosebumps rising on his skin, _“Sorry Hamilton, I prefer to swallow”._ It was a comeback that in Alexander’s ears did not sound quite right. The pitch and the inconsistent wording, as well as the fact that it wasn’t a poke at Alexander’s own wrong doings but more of a fact towards himself. A smile played at his lips, parting as teeth nipped at the inner flesh of his mouth.

 _“Don’t ask me why I just told you that”_ , was several seconds later tossed into the light-hearted silence that had befallen the two, the was a genuine mark of regret tattooed into his lyrics. This time, he couldn’t hold it back and chuckle escaped his lips, a chuckle without regret, another truth brushed away.

          Alexander could swear that on the other line Jefferson was most likely lying in his king bed, in his fancy apartment, sipping a glass of red wine- yes, at this time in the morning. The contrast of white sheets artistically swirled around his darker skin. In a split surge of connections, his visions toyed with the idea, a picture revolving in his inquiry. _Did Jefferson sleep with his shirt off?_ Naked perhaps. He pictured Thomas’s room dark in the night, tossing imperceptibly, majestically in his sleep, the edges of the white sheet intertwined, revealing toned legs and… woah- he needs to stop himself and Alexander’s mind spun with ecstasy.

          From his seat across from the Virginian, without permission, his russet eyes trailed down the patch of revealed skin whenever Jefferson leaned back in his seat, stretching out the cracks in his stiff back. His rival would always notice his stares, never made a scene of it, but simply looked from Alex to the floor to mimic him with a content curling indent.

          It was a marvel how there were two different personas. When Jefferson stood up, he was half an inch taller than Washington, straight postured, stiff loose jointed walk, _inhuman_.  When he retired to sit down at a seat, it was a plague to his thoughts how the taller male’s posture was so terrible as he sat. Alexander was almost tempted to yell, “Sit up you lazy fuck”. Something in Alexander’s feeble heart didn’t feel like the fantasy that played itself in his head was the truth. Jefferson’s usual important choice of wording and character, his confident crack of his knuckles and the smirk that screamed arrogance and all-knowing working his cheekbones like he invented it.

          The eyebrow that seemed forever raised against his forehead in contradiction rose steadily higher and he blinked lazily, “Yeah- _Jefferson_ , why did you tell me that?”, his internal clock hollered that it was already past eight and that he would be missing Washington’s class today. _His own self doubt buzzed, and I’m not bothered by this- how?_ He did not know the answer to this question which caused his neck to ache with pressure tapping against the base of his skull in a melodic sting. 

 _“Fuck you”._ Alexander’s mouth was already wide to form an insult back, rage clocking into his veins, but his analytical brain worked the process. The flow of sentences usually recognized by Jefferson, was still, non-existent as instead dilatory comeuppance was formed. Lazy wording of Thomas did not spate, it instead resonated a meek, and not of his own deep low brewing expression. Thomas Jefferson, the man of few words, the many whose single sentences were spoken truly of only passion and genuine genius. The insult that sifted over the speaker left his mouth drained of control. Of all the many beautiful chorales of words he could have strung together, his eager mind was only able to manage a feeble beat of usual contemporary infliction. Thomas Jefferson, was not Thomas Jefferson. Hopefully, someone had killed Jefferson and put an imposer in his place.

          His mind to mouth function worked against him in retaliation, his own empathy, “Are you okay?”. It was that moment that Alexander’s heart skipped a beat and he sincerely willed that it would just finish beating altogether. He only fostered care if the long-legged male was okay because he was human. He knew his own emotions, he knew his own pain. As long as everyone around him was alright- it did not matter if he was not.

          There was not an answer, a slight hiccup swallowed asthmatically from the other pastern, fluctuation in tempo. _“Tell Washington that I can’t make in today, please”._

“No.”

 _“_ What.”, hiss blew through his teeth.

          As if he was a mother scolding a child, his arms crossed half way across his lower stomach, “Not till you tell me what’s going on with you.”, his hips swerved and he spun around, comforting himself in his surroundings. Penchant his back against the edge of his desk and allowing the bubble of arrogant dislike spew from his soul and a matter of actual concern taking it’s place.

_“Hamilton-”._

          “No”, blatant, direct, demand, more visions of Jefferson’s ombre lips bobbing for munics to compost. But it was reticent on the other end.

          As if Jefferson could behold him, the bun at the base of his neck bobbed as he ruffled his head in defiance, “Spill, or I’m hanging up”. Eyes squinting at the dirt he could pull up from Jefferson, _oh how he could humiliate him_ and a tongue slithered at the corner of his mouth. Of course, he somehow expected Jefferson to have hung up and he waited from the buzz that the conversation had come to conclusion.

          If that had happened, he would pocket his phone into his sweatpants, throw his bag over his shoulder and stand outside Washington’s class until someone exited the class for a slight second before like a ninja he would slip in. He was not one to come down without a fight. A shudder grappled his chin as he remembered the one day Washington had gotten security to usher him out of class. If so, Alexander would probably just go to the cafe blocks away from campus, grab a coffee, type up some more paragraphs before heading to his afternoon class. Not before stopping to meet Hercules and Lafayette, who were both out of class at the time as well. He would laugh, throwing his head back as he recounted the tales about how Thomas fucking Jefferson asked for his help. Of course, Lafayette would slap his arm and scold him while Hercules throated out a belt of retort. Even though Hercules held no ill will towards the tall Virginian. 

        _“What would you like to know, you short bastard?”_ , there it was, he had caved. There was a bubble of glee that burst in his inner belly, twisted out cords of _he’s back, tall bastard is back_ , whispering before fumigating into the air in wafts. 

          Unable to carriage up on his dawn legs, he flopped into his desk chair, fingers twisting the tearing threads on the seat. He should have bought a desk chair from Ikea- somewhere cheap instead of the thrift store. But it was free, and he didn’t have the time to shop and buy a new one. He yearned, if only he could see- _feel_ the temperature right now, it was still summer outside- he dreaded the winter. His body was more accustomed to the piercing rays of sunlight molding into his person, soaking into his tired bones. One day if he gets enough money, he’ll visit his home once again. A smile diverted his scowl from repression. For now, he was nothing. Just a orphan, immigrant.

          “Why are you so quiet today?"

           A snark, _“Aren’t I always, Mr. Hamilton?”._

          _Mr. Hamilton_ , he mouthed in mock, Alexander’s eyes forcefully rolled back in his head, “Your choice of wording today- _Mr. Jefferson_ \- it's quite lacking in beauty”.

           “ _You think my words are beautiful?”_ , he could swear Jefferson was grinning. The words lit up like lights on a Christmas tree. 

          “You know what I mean”, sucking in a cheek and feeling his shoulders slump in comfort. _He felt comfortable._

          Another quiet pause on the other line, “ _I’m in a bad situation”_. The male sat up in his seat, his comfort lost as his shoulder shot up to his shoulders in motion.

          “How so?” the pads of his elaboration hungry fingers scraped against the roof of the chipping wood on his desk, pulling back as a splinter was inserted. There was a beg of disconcerting, masked by the stinging pain in his mouth.

_“I’m stuck-”_

“Did you get your dick stuck in your zipper?”, what a drive to the emergency room Hercules had that night. Accompanied by John's hysteric laughter from the trunk, and Lafayette's scolding glares through the rear-view mirror as Hercules wailed in pain, sprawled out in the passenger side seat. 

_“What, the, fuck.”_ read off like a list of groceries. 

         His shoulders shrugged, ears shading into a bright red, “I was just asking…”.

          There was a pant of resentment, it was a melancholy respire of dignitude, it motivated Alexander’s invariably patent mouth to shut, stalling, clinging for Jefferson’s next syllable. _“I’m just-”,_ another broken murmur mesmerized out, _“I’m stuck in an elevator-”_ the sentence was fragmented up and concluded as Alexander’s tuned ears clearly witnessed the intact of a high pitched sob mincing, it was then masked as Jefferson cupped a hand over his mouth to veil the resound of himself. If Alexander had been in any other position stunned this crucial collector of information, he would have laughed. But now as the vocals of his constant confident stride now broke into an impotent crack of fragmentation he couldn’t help but feel his own heart drop suddenly.

          Fingers nimbly brushed the surface of his desk, picking at a stray segment of flaking wood, his head trying to stray from the condolence plucking of the strings in his heart. Chin lifted towards the closed blinds at the window, sunlight peered struggling to illuminate the room. Alexander crossed his desk. “Are you crying?”, straight and to the point before the tips of his hands swiped against the string hanging from a patch of cracking paint on the wall. The blinds creaked open, dust blowing into the air as he twisted the cord and letting the sunlight into the room. His eyelids fluttered several times and his eyes flew shut, blinding him in the bright aurora.

 _“Just- tell Washington I can’t come in today, goodbye…”_ Alexander’s heart leaped in his cavity, jumping into his throat, his vocal chords pulsating with all the lingering dialect and fumbled meanings he longed to speak. _“...Alexander”_. His eyes blurred, swirling and he took his fingers off the window and rubbed them over his eyelids. Thomas Jefferson had never said Alexander, Alexander had never said Thomas. The rocky terrain that Alexander had carefully refrained from ever taking now seemed to turn into a grassy meadow, it was filled with burgundy flowers that protruded a seldom smell of spices, french cologne and- 

         “Wait- Thomas-” Thomas. _Thomas_. Another split in reality seeping from his intelligent comprehension. It was a step he had never taken before and the words seeping stranger to his dialect but appropriate in his expression. _Thomas_.

 _“Yes, Hamilton?”,_ expression was now returned to his incompetent mood. Regret was mood Alexander felt often, but now as Thomas flowed throughout his brain his cheeks burned with the word,tattooing his soul and he craved the word to come again. Regret pumped in his veins, covering every Orpheus of his skin like pin pricks needling in indentures.

          Finding multitude, he grabbed a pen off of his desk, twiddling it between his fingers meticulously finding meaning in the movement. There was a loud crash on the other end and his cranium shot up at the sound, his ears cringing from the loud sound excruciating. Silence on the other end, his heart sped up in the cavity of his ribs, pounding against his quivering bones. “Jefferson? Jefferson?!” he asked, a seldom worry colliding to his phrases. No response, heaving breathing calculated from the other end. Non Rhythmical breathing of panic. “Thomas, are you there?”, he moving closer to the territory, taking his gaze from across the room and stare down at his nail beds indenting into his skin and his knuckles rapping white and oscillating contrast against his tan skin. “Are you alright?”.

            No answer, “Jefferson- _please_ this isn’t funny- _answer me_ ”, the inhalation on the line began to triggered to a more human as the caving heart wrenching sobs billowed the phone.

          In a voice that proved the accusation from before, the whimper soaked grievances and rooted panic turned into phrases, _“T-this is exactly what you want- to see Thomas Jefferson at his weakest”._ For the first moment in his life, he had no comprehension. Chin quivered before his chattering teeth scraped against his inner cheek. It was a large moments for firsts this morning as another one joined the growing list. It was the first time he saw Jefferson the way he saw Schuyler Sisters, or John or Lafayette. It was a stranger idea but it took root and bloomed in his conscious. Budding growth of inspiration

        “I’m going to help you- where are you?” Alexander reached across his desk, knocking over a jar of pencils John had left over and they spilled across the table top dripping onto the floor. In random, he picked up one of the pencils- to his dismay it was yellow and in the annoying conscious blended into the paper.

          “Home…” a weak mutter mumbled off disappearing into the air.

 

⚀⚁⚂⚃⚄⚅

 

          It took him a long spout of consideration before Alexander ended his call with Thomas with careful reassurance that he would call him back soon. In his mess, Thomas could not hide the broken hint in his tones. _He didn’t want me to go._ He slid his phone into his sweatpants pocket before grabbing his keys off of hook that Aaron had hung up by the door. Alexander was surprised that Aaron hadn’t taken it with him but instead left it. Possibly a parting gift, or a mistake. He pulled the strings of his sweatshirt in an anxiety convulsion before slamming his dorm room closing behind him without a second thought.

 

⚀⚁⚂⚃⚄⚅

 

It was mystery to himself why Thomas Jefferson, scum of the earth such as him, and his darling sweet Lafayette were somehow friends. Both were angelic, Alexander noted. Between the spouts of anger he came bursting into Lafayette’s dorm with such information, he had only heard tiny remarks in retort.

_“He’s sweet, and he likes France.” Lafayette cocked his head to the side and brushed back a stray curl that broke away from his messy ponytail._

_A gasp, Alexander put a hand over his heart in shock, “Jefferson? He’s an asshole!”_

_“He’s helpful.”, Lafayette contradicted._

_Snarling across the room and John perked up a little over the heated debate. “With what? Being a dick?”_

_“Avec sa bite, avec sa bite”, a tease remark onto his full lips._

_He felt his face burn and neck stiffen, as John snickered from across the room and lifted his chin up._

_Hercules circulated around in his seat, sitting the backwards way on the chair and leaning his head on his arm. “What’d he say?” it was quite unfortunate for him that he was the singular person in their group who did not know French._

_Face still red with embarrassment he buried his face in his hands, “You don’t want to know…”_

_Hercules winked, Alexander saw it through the reality seeping through in his clasped hands, “Dear Alexander, of course I do”._

**Alexander** : Lafayette, are you in class?

 **Alexander** : _Gilbert_!!!

          **Lagayette** : Oui mon petit lion?

         The answer was instantaneous, he didn’t bother to ask why he was on his phone when he should be paying attention in class but he buzzed and plucked out his question.

          **Alexander** : Do you know where Thomas Jefferson lives?

          **Lagayette** : Ne pas brûler sa maison.

         That idea had crossed his mind many times, pausing in his step to answer Lafayette’s obnoxious messages.

          **Alexander** : wtf no- I’m not

         **Lagayette** : Je vois, you’re going there for another reason?? ;)

          **Alexander** : Ew no, this is Jefferson we’re talking about.

          **Lagayette** : Pourquoi you are asking where mon tigre vie?

          **Alexander** : I don’t have time for this french fry, just tell me where the rich bastard lives

          **Lagayette** : _Lagayette has sent you a location._

         **Lagayette** : Thomas une belle taste in wine, bring him a bottle, unless you gay baise are skipping the foreplay and obtenir le droit à elle ;)

         **Alexander** : wtf Gilbert your nasty

         **Lagayette** : *you’re, too excited to type mon lion?

          **Lagayette** : Thomas is large in the downstairs department, you should do some stretching first :) ;)

 _  
_ Alexander stuck out his tongue towards his phone before clicking on the location, which was only several blocks off of campus. Jefferson was a rich fuck who was probably only in his college before of his money. Unlike him, Alexander worked his ass off to get where he was today. _And where’s that?_ Thomas’s voice rang out in his head in a mocking siege of arrogance. _Why is it everybody but him enjoyed Jefferson’s company? Did he drug them?_ Alexander did not know if he would be able to tolerate the fluffy haired freak if he was even on drugs. _Yet you’re coming to my rescue?,_ he rolled his eyes as his brain persisted with recollections and audios of his stupid Virginian vocals. He put the address into maps and began his walk down to his demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:  
> \- If you caught on, Alexander is an evil plotting fuck.  
> \- Thomas Jefferson was 6'2.5 which is half an inch taller than George Washington. When Thomas Jefferson stood up he had the straightest posture (like damn), but when he was sitting down he had such poor posture (wtfyd Tommy).  
> \- If you caught on, none of Alexander's friends hate Thomas Jefferson.  
> \- Thomas Jefferson was quiet all the time because he had super had social anxiety and was scared of talking in front of crowds. During his presidencies he only made two speeches- both were his inauguration speeches.  
> \- Avec sa bite = With his dick  
> \- Oui mon petit lion? = yes my little lion?  
> \- Ne pas brûler sa maison = don't burn his house  
> \- Je vois = I see  
> \- Pourquoi = why  
> \- mes vies de tigre = where my tiger lives  
> \- une belle = a beautiful  
> \- baise = fucks  
> \- obtenir le droit à elle = get right to it


	5. Chapter Five | The Virginian.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander to the rescue. Thomas is not a maiden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lost my writing mojo for a while because I started school and I didn't have any time. But I'm back! I started planning out everything so I can't wait to write the next plot after this one!

         It feels like hours since Alexander promised in a voice of strict iron that he’d be back soon. Thomas’s back was pressed against the still side of the elevator, attempting to steady his breath into even paces as shaky exhalations escaped past his lips. The carpeting below his tread felt slithery, it seemed seldom miles away from this high up, he was always so tall, even as a kid. But this height... it caused his head to spin with nauseating muse. _Take me back to just an hour ago,_ Thomas’s dismal apprehension peaking with depression.

         His face felt stiff, and he raised a feeble arm to scrape the brush of his knuckles underneath the arid of his eyes. Dry tears marking up his identity, a written novel full of twist ending, plot holes, depressive lines. He grappled as the skin of his body twitched unnervingly and a thick scrawl appeared on his skin. Years and years of unsaid quietude slicing and confessing the thoughts of a tall, strong minded internal conflict.

         Thomas learned at an early age to keep his mouth shut. His conception always abundant of endless compositions, sentences, percolations that settled him into the brink. His lips would part to formulate to these comprehensions but the slap on his cheek from previous encounters would sting, his face numb with the red pike and he shut his split lips. The reflections exerted aggressively to the rear of his brain.

         The elevator, the atmosphere shifting, and he felt cold. The altering, the hair rising and his arms crossed around his torso protectively, shielding himself from something he did not know. Blurry vision swimming before his vision culminated and he bit his full lips to stop the tears from etching new lines of character into his cracked skin.

         He always hid his nervous habits. Between the nail biting which tore himself from his own flesh and causing his nail beds to bleed, his excessive lip biting and his peeling skin at the pads of his fingers. Everybody marveled how perfect his nails were, he would smile politely, modestly before his brain poked at the frontal of his thoughts, “ _You file your nails because you try to hide your nervous habits_ ”. Nobody questioned his constant apply of chapstick, blueberry was his go-to, _but was the really the point?_ The tips of his pearly teeth loved to pry at his plump lips, playing at them between the rocky grip.

          Nobody has noticed. Thomas has never minded his independence, he has never minded being alone. Saying he was utterly alone was untrue. He had John, he had James, he had Jemmy and he had Angelica. But at the end of the day when the lights of New York dimmed and his true nature emerged: James crawled his way into Jemmy’s bed, Angelica’s eerie domestic bliss with John Church and John always had Abigail. _Who did he have?_ Images peered into his lobe, an empty bed it’s owner’s eyelashes were settled, look close enough and you could see all his insecurities. The center meet of his bushy brows, the gritting grinding of his teeth keeping his speculations wild as the stars in the dense sky above.

         He hated the big city, missed desperately the rolling. rich, chartreuse hills of the Virginian farmland, the marmalade colored fruit hanging thick like sap from the rich shamrock leaves. A tired sigh escaped. A long time, _how long has it been since he’d seen Caractus?_   Would he ever go back? He came to New York to escape, why would he think of coming back. Because, family is the most important thing, without it you are lost. Family is not necessarily your blood, it's where you feel most home. His mind swam, when was the last time he even visited Virginia? The busy nature of himself floated and his drowned in a meek attempt to swim.

         He did remember the last time he saw his sister, Jane. June this summer. Her long curly brown hair laced down her back elegantly, a white sun hat tilted unevenly covering her right eye in an aura of mystery. A yellow sundress dotted white flowed on her dark legs in contrast, her complexion and the freckles that dotted the surface of her beautiful skin, while his own cheeks remained clear. Her calm, composed nature was why they were so close, she was only three years his senior. Not to say, that she was his favorite sibling, because he loved all his siblings in equal spaces of his dull beating heart. _All eight of them._

         There was an automatic click that sheltered the moment eye contact bloomed between Jane and Angelica. It was no surprise to Thomas, as sunny filtered through the blinds of a quaint cafe that he allowed Jane to pick and he sat with an amused look plastered into the creases indented into the corners of his mouth. Jane was apprehensive at first, but Angelica made her presence clear the moment she entered the cafe. Her jacket was tucked underneath her arm, tension lifted when Angelica mentioned her education at New York University. Out of the corner of his eye, Jane flashed him a smile, _I like her._

         A seizing brood cast a shadow in the catacomb of his heart and the phone held limply in his weak strength swung. A sense of relief by Hamilton’s answer, a sense of reprieve by the accent of which he stole the situation, Hamilton coming to help him. The cognition stranger in his perplexion, conversion, stretching out his legs in front of him and sliding his back against the elevator door slowly, falling and gradual down on the red carpeting of the elevator. The lights still flickering above caused bile to rise in his throat and he swallowed hard.

         Silence. How he always enjoyed his moments. John did not always respect that, always barging into Thomas’s apartment, whipping past him like a hurricane before breaking down with red in his face and fire in his heart. John had only lived in New York for a short while, but in those moments he savored every single second. Seven years older than him with a fiery temper and un-jailed low bellied throat. John was his, until he met Abigail and the four months of solitude comfort was disclosed as John moved back to Braintree, Massachusetts. He still had Jemmy, Madison worked harder than him. But his health was such a decline all his life, Thomas has seen the orange pill bottles stacked on the counters in James’s dorm.

         The silent reflection was interrupted as his familiar ring tone spat out a minor violin chorale. His heart leaped, skipping a beat, he jumped in the spot where he sat and his limb shot up to his face. The screen blurry for his poor vision, in front of his eyes. In guessing comprehension he slid the jittery call button and answered. _Would he still make fun of him for crying? How was Thomas to live with that fact?_ It wasn’t as if Thomas had never seen Alexander cry, when he got angry enough, tears would glisten on the dark bags hung thick underneath his eyes. A pang of guilt out suffocated himself, squeezing around his heart like a magnetic string.

         “H-hello?”, although he knew who it was, he was almost positive of who it was. He jerked the phone away from his face and growled in disappointment at making such a fool of himself already. A quick pep talk knocking on his cortex with confusion. Social anxiety bit his comprehension.

          _“Sorry for leaving you hanging”_ , the other end of the telephone sounded miles away and he could hear wind slapping, crackling against the receiver of the other’s phone. Thomas wondered what color the sky was this moment, the purple was more than likely gone and the oscillations rare. _“I think I’m standing right outside your building?”,_ Thomas’s shoulders flattened and he fulminated out a vacant blow of relief. Posed as a question, he sucked in his cheek and tipped his head back against the elevator wall. _“It’s nice- brick?”._

         Thomas found himself at a loss for words, his throat gargled, “I-uh”. His voice cracked and lip quivered before he confined his chops taking away his percolate.

         A pregnant pause, shuffling of clothing. _“Hey- I’m here, are you okay?”._

       Thomas didn’t seem to know if Alexander Hamilton was capable of any sympathy. It wasn’t as if nobody knew about Alexander’s past. _But did they really?_ A poor, immigrant, orphan, brought here by his single deliberately skill. Thomas had read what he’d written, everybody had. There was a matter of respect slipped into the paragraphs that brought Thomas covering his mouth as a vague resemblance. The essay about the hurricane, the printed papers were hidden in a neat stack underneath one of the catacombs of his desk.

          There was hesitation before his nifty fingers crossed over his cursor, and his pads typed in the familiarities. Alexander's picture and verses played out on his screen. The pages flew out of the printer and he stacked them neatly hiding them at the bottom of his desk, every once and awhile organization stacked them back in their familiar place. Unsure and too fearful to read Alexander’s passages. The very passages that brought him from the Caribbean, he wrote his own way out. Thomas, in a neat contrast, wrote his way in.

         Thomas wrote his way into his life, Thomas fulfilled his destitute. While Alexander instead, wrote his own deliverance. He wrote his own story, he took the poverty he had seen with his own eyes and he made his mind he wasn’t going to be one of them. He created his own life, Thomas admired the shorter man. The genius was even brought to Columbia on scholarship, started a year earlier than most. Thomas a senior Columbia university, Alexander a sophomore. Hamilton should be a Freshman at age eighteen, but he started University at age seventeen, a rare genius and now a year later he was in classes with strokes years older than himself.

          As much hatred filled tension Alexander was led to believe that Thomas had, there was none. Thomas held a mutual respect for the shorter man where there was only distaste from his counter. He wished oh-so desperately that he could hate the immigrant, not that it kept him up at night- he would never give Alexander the satisfaction. Thomas wished he had the courage that Alexander had- Thomas wished-

          _“Thomas?”._

         His eyes shot open, pupils blown and radiant, there it was again, the dialect. His own name burned rough in his ear, liquidation and desperation. A parting stranger, _would it ever happen again?_ Thomas cleared his throat, “Do you think I’m fine?”. He meant it as a snap, a bite at Alexander’s pride. But the verse drew out like an exhausted breath, even though he was finding it hard to breath with the pressure under his skin.

         _“I-I… I don’t know…”._

         A conclusion was all that Thomas needed. Nevermind that the man was at a loss for words.

          _“I’m in your building right now, passing the doors”._ Thomas drew a breath and felt that if he concentrated hard enough he wouldn’t be in an elevator, he wouldn’t be so frightened, and the tear stains drilled into his skin would be invisible. _“Holy shit- it’s fucking nice in here!”._ Thomas released a chuckle at Alexander’s exasperation. A mincing smile, croaking.

          _“Okay, I’m standing in front of some elevators right now?”,_ Alexander concluded, and through the elevator shaft Thomas could harken the familiar squeaking of Alexander’s shoes on the tile floor of the entry hall. They were sizes too big for the man, the toes dragged against the floor when he walked with his hunk. _“So”._

         Calming, sensual. His chest fell in careful breaths, “So…”. Not much energy was resolved.

         _“I have an idea, have you tried clicking the emergency button?”._ Thomas felt almost stupid, but stood up carefully, his legs almost creaking out from underneath him.

         Through his blurry vision, he fastened a hand onto the side of the elevator and feeling throughout that darkness, his sweaty palms slided against the gold plated railing at the side of the elevator. He was met with miles of disappointments, unable to see through the darkness the buttons that blurred underneath his vision. It was as if a thick blanket of fog was settled across his eyes, and he desperately willed himself to see, willed himself to be able to list the numbers printed on the buttons of the elevator without his glasses. He was embarrassed of his glasses, a shifty little plot waiting to spill upon his demise.

         “Red or yellow?”, a stupid question, but before Thomas could catch it and swallow it down, the words spit up past his tongue, spilling through the air.

         A hesitation drew breath on the other line. _“Red?”_ , set as another question. He suddenly felt unsure about himself but without hesitation raised his thumb to catch across the button.

         It took him less than a second to figure out that it was the wrong button.

         As soon as his finger pressed contact with the blurry red dot, his hands immediately flew to cover his ears. “Fuck!”, he yelled, the veins in his neck popped out in discomfort. A loud ringing sprang out throughout the space around him, echoing around him like a cave and with cautious hands tore one off of his ears to be able to press the button once again. At last there was peace.

         _“Holy shit- are you okay?”_

         His ear rang, it took him a minute to understand what Alexander was whispering on the other line, malice hit him like a mallet. “You are so fucking dull! Do you fucking think I’m okay? Are you trying to fucking kill me?”. His chest heaved and his ribs rattled together like still bones. Regret reeled in, and Thomas shrunk temperedly in his spot. Consecrated into the red carpeting like the cold hands of grief. Regret. He was regretted hurting Alexander. He was regretting it. He was feeling thick ropes choking his heart, the strings ripped up like a broken violin in his soul. The one person who came to help him, and the bitter, icy tone of change sniffled him.

          _“I’m-I’m sorry”._ Alexander Hamilton never says sorry, a breath of grief washed through the speakers.

         Thomas covered the bridge of his nose with his hand, “No, no- I’m sorry. I’m sorry I…” the right word was lost, “...snapped at you.” Peaking with eager, “Thank you, for trying to help”.

         “ _Anytime”. Was this ever going to happen again?_ Alexander on the other line, Thomas would feel his large doe like eyes looking up at him from several stopped floors up. “Try pulling on the yellow button”. As much as Alexander fucked him over, Thomas felt a dull pounding at the base of his cranium. Trust. Thomas hadn’t felt trust in… he breathed, drawing a breath and raised a hand to press the button…. Years, it was a countdown. His fingers flew to the button, wrapped them around the extended digit. _Here goes nothing…_ a final hope. And with positivity wrapped in a blanket from Alexander,

  
         Thomas pulled on the yellow button.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:  
> \- If you read close enough, you get little clues about Thomas's past. If you haven't caught on, you'll learn later. It's really sad.  
> \- When Thomas said he wasn't alone because he had James and he had Jemmy, Jemmy is James Madison and James is James Monroe (both were good friends with Jefferson).  
> \- I ship James Madison and James Monroe, feel free to ask me why in the comments, that's why they are together in the fanfic.  
> \- John Church was Angelica Schuyler's husband.  
> \- Angelica Schuyler and Thomas Jefferson were actually friends. Thomas Jefferson even had a crush on her actually.  
> \- John is John Adams and Abigail is Abigail Adams.  
> \- Caractus is a horse that Thomas Jefferson actually had, and he raised it since it was a foal.  
> \- Jane Jefferson (Thomas Jefferson's older sister) and himself were actually SUPER close. He was closest with her of all of his siblings. She died age 25, and Thomas was only 22 at the time he was absolutely devastated. She becomes a big character, I'm doing research to find her personality so I'm entirely accurate and not OC what so ever  
> \- If you caught on as well, Thomas had a crush on John before he met Abigail and moved to Massachusetts. Thomas and John had a falling out because of something that happened between the two. You'll find out later what it is. Sorry- I just needed my Jadams.  
> \- The orange pill bottles are suppose to show that James Madison was always sick. And not how you guys portray him with colds and shit- but like actually fucking diseases.  
> \- Braintree, Massachusetts is where John Adams lived.  
> \- Also, if you caught on, Thomas admires Alexander in a way. Thomas doesn't hate Alexander at all.  
> \- In this fanfic, Thomas is 21 and a senior at Columbia, and Alexander is a sophomore at Columbia and he's 18.  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> You guys can find me on Tumblr (@sonofhistory) and twitter (@fearless_seas). I've been a history buff since age nine and a writer sinc age six- so don't expect anything less than good. All of the Hamilton characters will be based on how they were kinda in real life. Have fun. #don'tforgetJamesMonroe


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